Quiet Things
by smallgarden
Summary: In the summer of 1861, a ten-year-old Beca Mitchell finds a young girl hiding from the war in her garden. Subsequently, it is decided that without a place to go, she should stay at the Mitchell Estate Manor. Strange things happen when they let Chloe into the house. Co-written with author Phlesh.
1. Chapter 1

**Gentle, my co-writer and I relied on Google for most of our time-period knowledge. Would love to know what you guys think!**

* * *

 _June, 1861_

* * *

The air is milky, heavy with the kind of humidity that makes it difficult to breathe. Heat that stifles, consumes. Surrounding the Mitchell Estate Manor, the grass- as green as it may be- was beginning to grow wild, overgrown. With the exception of Mrs. Abernathy, and Beca Mitchell, the stately manor was all but abandoned, and it was beginning to show. Vegetation growing sparsely; the vines were beginning to creep upwards into the coloumns, the garden edibles were being attended to, but the flowers had begun to compete with weeds.

"Your father," Mrs. Abernathy would say, mussing with Beca's dress- too long on her tiny body, there were already several pins valiantly trying to keep it in place- inside of the kitchen. Sometimes it gets lonely with just the two of them. "is out there fightin' the Yankees. Now you just be appreciative that we have all that food out there," She juts her chin in the direction of the bay windows; outlooking the garden and back portion of the wraparound porch. "to ourselves."

Beca frowns. Unhappy with the dress more than anything. "But if the troops come, aren't we supposed to share?"

Something dangerous flashes behind Mrs. Abernathy's eyes. Reserved, and maybe distinctly frightened, but she regains her composure quickly. Straightening herself with one last, firm pat to Beca's shoulders. "Of course we do what we can for our troops. But we hope they have no reason to be coming this way." Beca concedes to this with a slight tilt of her head. The older woman then turns, snatching up the wicker basket from the tabletop behind her and all but shoving it into Beca's ill-equipped hands. She nearly drops it. "Now, go grab what you can out there and I'll show you how to make soup later."

Her frown deepens. But she stomps her way over to the back door and slides outside; the heat was even more suffocating without the buffer of walls. She inhales deeply through her mouth; trying to get a lungful of half-decent oxygen. Far, far off- just very faintly heard- there is gunfire. Booming. They seem to be moving back this way.

The war had been happening for, from what Beca can understand, maybe two months. Her father had immediately deployed; relieving his staff, with his one exception. And leaving Beca.

She always liked the garden. It was a place veiled in magic by a child's eyes. Fairies may hide in the hydrangeas and the plants breathed their own kind of world. Secret, wordless. The kind Beca liked. Words just only ever seemed to complicate things.

It was here, in the garden- while she pulled carrots and turnips from the earth, plucked blackberries from their bushes- that upon Beca's humming, begrudgingly obedient conquest, that she noticed something strange behind said blackberry bush.

She'd taken the grace to pop more than a few into her mouth; her fingertips already caked with dirt and stained. But they dried up on her tongue at the first shock of it. With her knees tucked to her chest, wild red hair strewn about her face, Beca found startling blue orbs staring up at her. Her next initial reaction flares up in her chest at the intrusion.

" _Excuse_ me," She bites out, thickly swallowing the blackberries. "what are you doing in my garden?"

The girl blinks at her a few times; doe-eyes that are flighty, at best. They dart around. "Hiding." She says, after a moment.

Beca knows that there is a fenceline that surrounds the whole magnitude of the Mitchell property. Overgrowing meadows and woodland; an impressive acreage. She knows that there is by no way an accident that this girl stumbled into it, somewhere, that she must have known she was crossing into private property. But she is suddenly much more curious than offended. "From the Yanks?"

The girl shrugs. "From the war."

It sings of a bad idea. Beca can feel it. In the way the humidity is causing the loose strands of her hair to glue to the back of her neck, her temple. Make her sticky. In the enroaching silence that stretches out between them- it feels predatory. Like something settling back on it's haunches, ready to pounce. Beca eyes the house; she knows Mrs. Abernathy will be mad. She is set on her toes just by the idea of seeing the woman moving behind windows, but she takes a few steps backwards, anyway. To make some room if this girl wanted to stand. But she doesn't. She sits for a few moments longer.

"Is your dad in the war?" The girl asks, and Beca glances back at the house. Expecting to see Mrs. Abernathy standing there on the back steps, scowling. She's not there though, so she nods, slowly. "Mine too."

She scuffs her feet through the soil. "What's your name?"

"Chloe. What's yours?"

"I'm Beca." Awkwardly, she gestures towards the manor; the hand not holding the basket. "Would you like to come inside?"

Peculiar things happen when she lets Chloe inside.

* * *

Mrs. Abernathy had predictably been quite livid. She reprimanded that Beca ought not to let just anyone into the house, on chance that they could be a Yankee spy, or criminal. But it soon became clear that Chloe was neither of these things, other than a small girl whom had curiously been hiding in the blackberry bushes. Mrs. Abernathy was, of all things, a motherly woman at heart. Though she occasionally had the severity that suggested otherwise.

Her next pressing set of questions had been in the form of wondering where Chloe had come from. She claimed not be from the town a few miles down, and after she'd gotten a bowl of warm, watery soup in her, she confessed to both of her parents being in the war. Mrs. Abernathy was at a loss. She'd set Chloe to bed in one of the many spare bedrooms of the manor, surreptitiously locking the door, and all of the doors in the house, for that matter- and then visited Beca in her own bedroom. The excitement of their unexpected visitor had kept her nerves tittering in her belly, even after her soup, and bedtime tea.

"I can only assume she must be some runaway child," Mrs. Abernathy had sighed, perched against the foot of Beca's bed. Her nightgown long and flowing, lantern in hand. "I'm not sure what to make of it."

"Why doesn't she stay here-?"

"Beca, she is not a stray animal for the keeping."

"Well, if she's telling the truth-"

"And if she's not?" Mrs. Abernathy challenges, eyes glittering in the lowlight. "Then there is a family missing their daughter." Beca, scolded and confused, tucks her knees to her chest in a similar manner to the way Chloe had when she'd found her. The woman had a point. But she believed what Chloe said. Though she must have come from _somewhere_. "It's a long ride to town," Mrs. Abernathy continues, shaking her head. "and without a stableboy... Your father has sold but all the horses to the war, but I suppose we'll have to make a trip..."

"And?" Beca presses, heart skittering in her chest. Anxious. Anticipated.

Mrs. Abernathy widens her eyes, as though the answer is obvious. "And see if anyone is missing their child."

* * *

They spent the next morning and early afternoon traveling into town where, as Beca could have foretold, Chloe belonged to no person- or no person that they could locate, anyway. It had been a long and quiet trip; with Chloe understanding and respecting the necessity of it, all the while being too polite to say what Beca knew she was thinking; that they were wasting their time. Which was true, Beca knew it even before they had set off.

Mrs. Abernathy was in a particularly cranky mood as well. She had to get up likely just before the crack of dawn to move Winnie- the only Clydesdale and horse left on the estate- and get her hooked up to the wagon all on her own. It was a single wagon so it was quite cramped with the three of them on there, and Winnie's pace had been quite slow. Father used to have a larger one that could room four or five people, but he had sold it along with the other Clydesdale and horses to the war. He claimed that they could always buy more when he returned, but for now it was safer to have the money without the fuss. Beca was dismayed because he had also sold her Sunshine, much without her permission, of course. "She's such a kind tempered and brave girl," He'd assured her while she bawled, with snot dripping into her mouth, watching as the army man lead her away. "Don't you want a _soldier_ to rely on her?"

He was never one for comfort.

And so they'd came and went, with the same mystery child they had when the sun rose that day. Mrs. Abernathy had taken her opportunities; she'd bought some more yarn, and soap, and stopped at the Allen's- their neighbourly estate- for a good deal on some game. The two children assisted in her removal of horse from cart, Beca pleasantly happy with guiding the animal back to it's corral.

Inside, Mrs. Abernathy had hummed and hawed, standing in the foyer with her brow furrowed, observing the two children she now appeared to have under her care. At the end, she'd decided it was the ' _Christian thing to do_ ' to keep Chloe in her care until further notice. It was the war, after all. An orphanage didn't need another child.

"You are to assist in chores, you hear me? And no mischief," One wagging finger flicking between the figure of both children. "You will be held under the same account as Beca."

Chloe nods fervantly, her lips pressed together in a thin line to keep her excitement from breaking her cheeks. Big blue eyes probe for Beca's, and she finds them; Beca not bothering to hide her grin. It would be awfully great to have some company that wasn't Mrs. Abernathy.

They eat the smoked rabbit Mrs. Abernathy had gotten from the Allen's for supper, alongside a berry salad from the bushes. And then they boil several pots of water for the tub, while Beca cleans up the dishware. It's dark enough to need a lantern by the time it's finished, but she wanders up to her bedroom in the black, knowing full-well that Mrs. Abernathy would want her to get ready for sleep. She can't imagine that the woman would want this excitement interrupting their day-to-day lives for too long.

She knows the home as surely as the back of her hand. Every arc and curve of the staircase- though she keeps one hand on the railing, feeling the smooth wood under her palm. She travels across the upper landing, knows which doorknob on the left enters into her room. It's only once she's in there does she light a lantern before she changes into her nightgown. She's actually about to exit again, lantern in one hand, when her bedroom door swings open and nearly hits her in the face.

"Oh, Beca dear, I'm so sorry." The older blonde woman has her own lantern, and leaves no time bustling into her bedroom to tear through her drawers and grab another outfit of sleepwear. "I suppose you and Chloe will need to share now."

They had to share a great many things now, this was true. Food, clothing, responsibility. Beca didn't mind. She was fascinated by the fire-haired girl, who had appeared seemingly from thin air, into her fairytale garden. Though Mrs. Abernathy was willing to be accomodating, she was still wary. She continued to lock Chloe's door, just in case. To which Beca felt bad about, though she wasn't sure if Chloe was aware- she just knew that she would hate to wake up and feel like a prisoner trapped in a room. Especially if she had to use the water closet at all during the night.

* * *

Chloe easily sifted into their life, however. She picked fruits and vegetables from the garden when asked, the two of them pumped water from the well, and assisted as well as they could with helping Mrs. Abernathy keep the estate clean. They swept the porch, dusted the house, and on the occasions that they were allowed to play, they would romp in the meadows making crowns and bracelets of flowers, or giggle behind closed doors.

The manor, which Mrs. Abernathy had once described as having ' _a disgusting amount of space_ ', had always been sufficient enough to feel as Beca's castle. One she knew all of the best hiding spots in. That's why she always won hide-and-seek. There was one rainy afternoon; the gunfire couldn't be heard and the drizzle had remained all day; Mrs. Abernathy had showed them how to make stew earlier, and Beca had her music class already- the woman had fallen asleep on the loveseat.

It was Beca's turn to hide. She'd left Chloe upstairs to count to sixty, and Beca had galloped down the stairs, towards the back hallway, planning to hide in the study. Stifling her laughter, she'd wrapped herself up behind the curtains, and stood there, listening to the rain and her own breathing for a few minutes. But among listening to those things, she decides that this isn't a well-enough hiding spot; she should have instead hidden in the broom closet in the music room at the back of the house.

Willing herself to stay silent, Beca creeps out from behind the curtain and across the study, letting only the grey light of the room wash over her. With her breath in her throat, she unlatches the study door and carefully peeks out of the sliver, looking for any sign of Chloe, but there's none. Pressing the back of her hand against her mouth she steps out into the hallway- out of the curtains of the study. She blinks. The grey light, and the rain. She supposes maybe she'd only imagined it to a great degree, only thought about doing it. She creeps forwards some more, a little faster, worried now that she'd killed some time lost in her thoughts. She opens the door a crack, checks both ends of the hallway for Chloe, and steps out when she knows the coast is clear.

Out of the curtains of the study.

Her heart stutters and flips in her chest. She is less likely to believe she'd only fashioned this in her mind a second time. Crossing the room in quite a haste this time, Beca much less carefully opens the door. Both sides are clear. She steps out.

Into the study. There's a clamminess on her palms and she's not certain if she's running hot. She throws open the door this time, and Chloe's there on the other side, one tentative hand slightly in the air where the knob should be. She's startled. Her mouth a small 'o' as her eyes dart up to meet Beca. "Found you?"

"Do I have a fever?" Beca demands, snatching up Chloe's hovering hand and planting it firmly against her forehead. She looks at Beca as if she'd sprouted a second head.

Long lashes blink over her eyes rapidly, her wild red hair tangled down her back. But she considers Beca's skin under hers for a inarguable moment, before saying. "No." She sounds frightened and confused, which Beca is immediately sorry for. She hadn't meant to panic her. "Though you are a bit sweaty, I'll admit." Her heart was finally starting to slow down in her chest, regain it's pace. She lets Chloe's hand go, running her tongue over her lips and uncertainly raising the back of her own hand to pat around her forehead. It's no use, though. She herself feels as if she's on fire. "What happened?"

"Nothing." Explaining it will sound like a silly lie. Chloe shakes her head, eyes wide.

"No, tell me."

"You won't believe me." She mumbles, drawing her gaze away from those blue orbs and around the grey room. It felt like they were being watched. Or at least, Beca felt that way. She gets a chill down her spine.

"I will." Chloe grabs both of her hands in hers, her assurance firm and earnest. Clawing at Beca to open up. She sighs.

"It's just the strangest thing, is all. I couldn't leave this room."

"What do you mean?"

"Everytime I tried to leave, I kept coming back." Beca carefully pries one hand out from Chloe to point at the curtains. "Over there." She then thinks of her prayers. "It's like I was in limbo."

A small crease forms between Chloe's brows, the moment before she really lets her eyes roam the room. Maybe she feels it too, Beca thinks. The presence. "Maybe there's something in here you're supposed to find," Chloe offers after a few moments.

"Like what?" She counters, pulling her second hand away. Chloe shrugs.

"I don't know, lets look."

"This is my father's study." Beca points out; he'd always told her no snooping. He'd said it was rude.

Chloe shrugs a second time, dropping her eyes to the floor as if she'd just been scolded. "Okay, then we won't."

But the idea, that maybe there was something in here she was supposed to find. Some otherworldly incident trying to show her something, piques her interest. As Chloe turns her back to leave, Beca asks her quietly to wait. Chloe pauses, turning around with a new, interested spark in her eyes. "Maybe we will look, for a bit." She hedges through the still-present feeling of sin. It's not as if her father is here, and he would never need to know. Although, what it is she may have to be looking for is left more to confusion. But she trusts that if something was keeping her here, that she would just know when she finds what she's ought to. Intuition in the base of her gut. Magic. Some way, she would know once it's found.

Chloe keeps to the door, with Beca's guidance, one ear pressed against the wood. On edge, waiting to hear Mrs. Abernathy stirring somewhere in the house again.

Beca began rifling through bookshelves, uncertainty becoming a beast in Beca's bones. With each shelf she scales, an anger builds, teetering enough to spill over at her. Exhaustion that threatens to flatten her for an unknown reason. Using her whole body, she slams shut a desk drawer with a grunt of irritation. It's enough of a force to cause Chloe to jump where she's perched near the door, glancing back at Beca, concern twisting her features.

Beca's body is taut. Her tiny little hands ball into fists at her side, and as she meets Chloe's worried gaze, her foolishness hits her. But the anger had overtaken her momentarily; the idea that she had simple imagined her inability to leave seems more plausible by the second, and her admittance has less and less value. "Sorry." She murmurs, doing what she remembers her father had told her once; breathing in long and deep through her nose, and letting it out between her teeth.

"I could have been wrong." The weight of guilt is present in the timbre of Chloe's voice.

Beca lets her eyes slip shut, for a moment. "Just listen for Mrs. Abernathy, please."

The red-haired girl does as she told, silently pressing herself back into the door. Beca's father's desk was littered with literature; books and syllabus' for university teaching. Sighing, her fingertips drip down to the topmost drawer, the only one Beca had yet to pry through. Heavily, she drags it open. A dusty, handheld mirror lay inside, among other junk. Beca sifts through it halfheartedly, moving aside the mirror and pausing thoughtfully when her fingers trace the leather binding of a novel. Curiously, it feels warm to the touch. She pulls it out of the drawer and fiddles with the weight in her hands. It's not a novel.

* * *

Beca had turned the cover back, seeing the handwritten scrawl and knowing immediately what it was, who's it was.

"My mother's." She explains to Chloe, after they'd vacated the study- where they were supposed to be off-limits- and sitting cross-legged in their dresses atop of Beca's bedspread. "Her diary."

Beca had been given things that were her mother's before. Jewellery, dresses to grow into. But this was intimate; it was her mother's hand, thoughts, her phantom voice. This was a piece of her mother that she'd never gotten a chance to know.

Beca had squirreled away; even chancing a beating with the broom by lighting her lantern once Mrs. Abernathy had gone to bed to sit up and read about her mother's life. She had been happy and in love with her father. She spoke of him romantically, in ways Beca wasn't sure even existed. With light and kindness. She spoke of her childhood growing up in what was now Atlanta, with her family, a part of the church. She wrote of Christmas. She wrote of the love she felt to be carrying a child in her womb.

Beca had to stop reading then. It made her cry. She tried skipping ahead, but when the pages turned blank, she only cried harder. She'd fallen asleep clutching the leatherbound journal in one hand, tucked under the pillow.

* * *

There had been one evening in the deep of the summer where it had still been so hot that Beca wished she could crawl out of her skin, even with her breeziest nightgown on, it was entirely too much. She had her window open, but the draft of night air did not do much to ease her trouble. The sweat beaded on her forehead and ran down the crook of her spine, and she'd tossed and turned in the dark until she could take no more. It was against the rules, but she stood from her bed and decided upon roaming the house, hoping to find something that could help. The heat had her restless.

Inevitably, among her tiptoing, she crossed the hall where Chloe's room was, and was stunned to find the door slightly ajar. Now, perhaps Mrs. Abernathy simply forgot to lock the door this evening, but she had always been so vexatious about it before. Much like the supernatural tug she felt the first time she'd found Chloe crouched behind the blackberry bushes, she just had an inkling that that wasn't so. It didn't seem likely that Mrs. Abernathy would let up now. Perhaps Chloe had learned to undo the lock with a pin, the way Beca knew was possible, but she herself could never figure out.

Beca had tapped the door lightly with one finger, gently urging it open, half-surprised to find Chloe's bed empty. She was up and roaming the house as she was. Something that Beca feared if Mrs. Abernathy became wise enough to find out would result in Chloe's expulsion from the estate. And that was a _dreadful_ thought, it made Beca's heart stutter and her stomach fall into her knees. But she thinks it would maybe be in their best interest if Beca didn't go looking, if she simply returned to her room, as she was supposed to, and sweat out the night.

The next afternoon, while Mrs. Abernathy had assigned Beca to help Chloe learn how to read sheet music, she'd leaned into the girl's ear when the woman had left momentarily.

"When you're up in the night," She whispers with one hand cupped over her mouth, trying to keep the secret in. "you should shut your door, so that if by chance, Mrs. Abernathy crosses your room, she won't know." Beca sits back, resuming her nonchalant composure. Chloe sits back, blinking, surprised that she'd been caught in the act. Beca doesn't ask if this was the first time she was up and about. She knows it's not. Something that was suddenly so clear, the second she laid her eyes on that gaping door. She also doesn't care to ask how Chloe had gotten out. Beca twists her mouth, checking for any sign of Mrs. Abernathy's return, before whispering. "You could get a switching."

Chloe blushes. Beca doesn't get a chance to say anything else, but she hopes that tonight Chloe will pray for her forgiveness. She thinks it's okay if she doesn't, though; Beca can pray for her.

* * *

"When's your birthday, Chloe?" Mrs. Abernathy queries one suppertime, fork hovering over her greens. Chloe's eyes shift from Mrs. Abernathy, to Beca, and back again. She swallows thickly.

"I don't know, really," She admits. "I'm not certain."

The two other women at the table gape at their recent visitor. The dusk was a blue-grey that could use a lantern, but no one had decided to get up to light one yet. That made it difficult to see the expression on Chloe's face, but her words were all the same. "Did you not celebrate your birthday?" Mrs. Abernathy sounds aghast. Beca chimes in at the same moment;

"Didn't your parents-?"

Chloe shrugs. It was her answer to many things.

And whether or not she was lying could always be up for assumption, but one thing was certain; they never got an answer out of her.

* * *

As winter began to roll itself over the country, Beca was beginning to wonder if the war would ever end. Mrs. Abernathy had her reading sheet music for Christmas, and she had written several letters to father that had gone unanswered. For all Beca knew, he had been blown to dust by the Yankees.

It was strange to think Chloe had been a part of their life for six months now. There were still times Beca crept up in the night, down the hallway to see if Chloe was in her room. Sometimes the door was closed, a few times, it wasn't. Once, Beca had even gone looking for her; plucking carefully through the manor, room by room; except for the ones near Mrs. Abernathy's abode. She'd gone to the study, the music room; everywhere, every water closet, even- but she hadn't been able to find Chloe. She'd given up and returned to bed.

Sometimes, she also curled up with her mother's diary. Reading and rereading.

"Can you teach me?" Chloe had asked, sliding onto the piano bench next to Beca.

"How are you with your sheet music?"

"Well, better." Chloe frowns. "Not as good as you. But I just want to play."

Beca is uncertain if Mrs. Abernathy would allow her to do it. She hadn't been allowed to touch the piano until she could read every single note on the sheet music without question, without a second thought, until it was as natural to her as the Queen's english. But Chloe's eyes are so imploring, as if they'd been set in her skull with the sole purpose of not allowing any person to ever say no to her. So Beca concedes to taking a chance at punishment, on the account that it was still learning- for the borh of them- more than it was breaking any rules.

So Beca shifts on the piano bench; stiffly watching for the woman of the house, but when she didn't come, she began to show Chloe the use of the piano. How the ivory keys coordinate with the sheet music, slowly playing the first few chords of Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire for her, observing gently as Chloe hit a few wrong keys, struggled with moving her fingers the way they ought to. That was the same way Beca was struggling. Her fingers were too short; hands too small to naturally hit the keys.

If Mrs. Abernathy ever catches on, she does not appear to mind, because she never makes an entrance.

* * *

On Christmas morning, there is a frost that kills many of the things in the garden, which is unfortunate. The peaches and most berries had since perished from the cold. Thankfully, Mrs. Abernathy had sent the two of them out there the afternoon before to harvest vegetables for Christmas dinner, so that the stress of doing it would be out of the way.

Though they wouldn't be able to make it to the morning mass in town on time, Mrs. Abernathy still carted up Winnie at the crack of dawn and had the pair of them wear their best Sunday dresses, and file into the wagon. It was incredibly chilly, so Mrs. Abernathy had permitted that they tow along one of the less fine wool blankets from storage for the three of them to huddle under on the trip. By the time they made it to town, mass was over, even if the church was still open. They'd stopped by to let Winnie rest a short amount, and they had said their graces and ate some of the dry buns the church had to offer them, alongside a flavourful soup that Beca thought was quite good. Even if the majority of the current occupants of the church were the homeless, or the desolately poor. Beca felt sorry for them, but their good spirits were as high as anyone's.

They carted off again to visit Mrs. Abernathy's mother; whom lived in a cramped townhouse. Mrs. Abernathy had explained on the cartride that they ought not be afraid of her mother and it would be a short visit, but they were to say their prayers there and have a short, familial service. It was the first time she'd heard anyone call Mrs. Abernathy by her real name- Gail- and they'd met her sister Maryanne as well. She had another sister who wasn't present, and a brother who was, of course, in the war.

Mrs. Abernathy's mother was a God-fearing woman, who did what God-fearing women do; fear God, and His divine judgement. There were depictions of Christ crucified against the cross in every room of the house, and she lived as straight and proper as anyone Beca had ever seen. It made her nervous. She began to worry slouching was a sin, when the elderly woman scowled and asked Gail if she beat her at home when she slouched. Beca had gotten a reproving look and straightened up immediately, while Mrs. Abernathy explained she was trusted not to beat them, or at least not at the slightest infraction.

The elderly woman had gifted Beca with a copy of the Bible- though she already had one- upon their departure from her shabbled little town home. The woman had ignored Chloe completely, for reasons Beca didn't understand. In fact, the other girl had even wandered off while Beca hadn't been paying any notice.

She'd found the girl sitting on the small back patio, sitting a creaky wooden chair, staring at her intertwined fingers of her hands. Chlod had appeared flushed now, clammy, wide eyes that could be harbouring something near fear. Or panic. Or perhaps she was simply overwhelmed; claustrophobic and running a fever, after having spent too much time in the crooked house. Perhaps she was nervous.

Mrs. Abernathy had even acknowledged her mother's neglect of notice for the red-haired girl as they rode back.

"My apologies, Chloe," She'd said, her mouth a thin, conciliatory line as she peeks over her shoulder at the two girls. "My mother is a stern, strange woman." It was left in the air, unspoken but known, that the possible reason for the elder woman's blatant disregard was because Chloe was without name. Mrs. Abernathy was not from an especially prominent family; but they were proud, and respected. Chloe could truly be _anyone_.

Other than being the ' _girl from the garden who stayed with the Mitchell's'_ , Chloe was, in fact, no one. She hadn't even a last name she was willing to share, but not for Mrs. Abernathy's lack of trying.

They return home at dusk, the Allen's due to come over for supper with a cooked wild turkey, or duck, or some other bird one of their sons had hunted for the occasion. And so they'd lit the many candles and lanterns, and Mrs. Abernathy was on her toes watching for their wagon to come hobbling down to the estate. Beca and Chloe had tended to the blackberry pie; it was still warming in the oven when the Allen's knocked on the front door of the manor and Mrs. Abernathy bustled off to greet them.

"Bumper is horrible," Beca leans into Chloe's ear while she gets the chance. She hadn't even been aware that her neighbour's would be joining them for Christmas dinner until that very morning, and she hadn't gotten a chance to warn Chloe yet.

Robert- or Bumper- was the youngest of the Allen boys, and still two years Beca's senior. He was a deplorable in Beca's opinion; a lad who always thought he was funny, and important, but wasn't so. The Allen's were all hunters; the eldest boy, Oliver, and their father were both in the war, but Mrs. Ruth Allen, Charlie, and Bumper all file into the manor, stomping their boots. Ruth was a loud woman; in personality and presence.

Short and plump, with a large fish-mouth and a flamboyant, feathered hat. She was certainly her own person.

They brought with them roasted quail, and wine. Beca and Chloe pulled the blackberry pie from the oven when Mrs. Abernathy instructed them, and Beca had sat at the large dining room table- which could fit fifteen, at maximum- with a painted smile on her face as she pretended to listen to the Allen boys speak, which mostly consisted of hunting. Mrs. Abernathy and Mrs. Allen had been speaking animatedly among each other since they had sat down, paying no mind to the children. Chloe had brought her plate into the kitchen, eyeing Mrs. Allen's empty wineglass as she went on her quiet way. Beca had watched her intently; as she slipped away and disappeared from sight, battling the urge to get up and follow. Nowadays, she could feel Chloe's absence as a tangible being inside of her chest; gnawing, unpleasant, and occasionally saddening. It's the same reason why she can see Chloe's silhouette take form as she returns to Beca's line of sight, under the archway to the kitchen. There's something in her hand. Beca can see the whites of her eyes glowing against the dark, not quite part of the soft lamplight yet.

Gently, she comes up behind Mrs. Allen; a softly furrowed brow that mirrors the tone of her voice. "More wine?" She offers innocently, raising the hand holding the bottleneck slightly. Mrs. Allen yelps; effectively silencing the table as one hand shoots up to sit atop a bodacious breast, where deep down, a heart must have skipped a beat. Even Beca- who'd watched the exchange take place- jumps in her seat. Chloe remains cool, composed, perhaps only a little bit concerned that she'd caused a fuss.

"Oh, my dear," Mrs. Allen chuckles to herself. "You're as fleet-footed as a feline. Yes, please." She raises her glass and Chloe obediently pours, before offering the bottle to Mrs. Abernathy. "A new servant girl? She's lovely."

Mrs. Abernathy titters nervously, taking a long sip from her glass before answering. Beca thinks it's an odd reaction. "No," She appears embarrassed to not have mentioned it earlier, to not have mentioned Chloe. "It is actually a very peculiar story." Chloe sets the bottle down between the two women and whisks off politely. Beca can imagine she may be uncomfortable being the center of attention, or with being mistaken for a servant. Mrs. Abernathy rehashes the story, and their trip to town, as well as the subsequent confusion. "So I suppose we are keeping her here. I wouldn't wish it upon any child to be sent into an orphanage."

"How queer," Mrs. Allen muses- and then that is that, and afterwards, they begin talk of the war.

* * *

A letter reaches the Mitchell estate manor not long after Christmas, and it's a relief to Beca to have word that her father is out there somewhere, safe. It's the first letter she'd gotten since not long after the war had began; since Chloe had come to them. To her glee, he even permits Chloe express permission to stay with them. Mrs. Abernathy claims that she had expected as much- and she no longer feels the need to lock Chloe's bedroom door at night anymore.

Beca still believes she wanders the house after dark. She knows she does. There had been an evening in which Beca laid awake, and when she crept to Chloe's bedroom, and braved pushing the door open, she even saw that the bed was empty again. Beca had lurked through the manor in the night, trying to find Chloe, to see where it was that she had gotten to at such an hour. But she couldn't find her. And so, she had given up, returning to her bedroom. She trusted Chloe would be there in the morning; and she was.

"Where do you go in the night?" Beca queries silently, swiping the broom back and forth aimlessly across the front porch. Chloe was following her trail.

"I don't go anywhere."

Beca knows it for truth, and that's good enough for her.


	2. 1862

_1862_

* * *

In the following spring, Beca turns eleven. As gossip would have it, the troops- likely the one her father was a part of- were forced to abandon Kentucky following a beating by the Yanks, and now some, or most of the concentration, at the time, appeared to be in Mississipi. There was also, from what Beca could understand, some squabble in Texas. She was beginning to become anxious, having not heard any word from her father since the letter after Christmas.

It was a fair, warm day in April when Beca had discovered a educational book about the native flora and fauna in the Georgia area upon a bookshelf in her father's study. She'd thought it was a smashing idea for the two of them to go out to the back woodland on the estate and see what they could find. Mrs. Abernathy had agreed, though she begged that they _'be mindful of the toadstools and wildlife_ ', and had only permitted they go out in their most tattered dresses. She'd even seen them outside with a smile; the front of her smock covered in flour as she watched the children disappear among the tall grass.

Chloe was more weary about the forest than she, a timid twirling of her fingers that betrayed her own anxiety as they neared the trees edge.

The estate had pressing acreage, it was true. Meadows and woods, and even a small creek that ran through both the Allen's and her own backyard. The woods were mostly small; growing sparse and thick at the base of a sloping hill at the edge of the property.

"We go through," Beca explains, attempting to ease some of the other girl's worry. She motions vaguely with her hands, trying to be more clear. "And we can climb the hill, it comes out to a small glen on the top, and the view is beautiful."

The trust is present in Chloe's eyes, searching Beca, and acquiescing accordingly. She nods, still nervous, but compliant. Beca had even held out her free hand; the one not holding the wicker basket they'd brought; which, in turn, held the book. Chloe took it without second thought, and together they picked through the foliage. A few times, their dresses caught on twigs, but this didn't deter them. Beca was comfortable with the woods, and as they ventured deeper, she could sense Chloe's confidence building as her fear began to blow away in the breeze. They'd even found a wild blueberry bush that even Beca hadn't known about. Stealing a few for themselves, Beca crushed the sweet berries on her tongue and the two giggled together.

"Imagine the other things we could find," Chloe sighs, relieving the book from the basket so that Beca could pile blueberries into it's depths. She can wager that Mrs. Abernathy will be delighted.

"See what you can find on edible mushrooms," Beca suggests with a smile. Chloe flips the book open; her stained, purple fingers dancing around the pages. Beca comes up behind her to observe the pages, once Chloe finds them.

"This one here," One tentative finger makes contact with the page, underneath a diagram illustrating the fungi. "Is supposed to be edible. But this one," She moves her finger to the opposite side of the paper. "not." They look similar, but not so much that Beca is truly worried that they could mistake them.

"We'll keep our eyes open for this one, then." Beca agrees, taking a few steps back. And they do; they keep their eyes open for the mushroom in question, but by the time they begin picking their way up the incline, the foliage waning away; they hadn't come across any.

The glen was as lovely as Beca could remember it; though she hadn't ventured so far in quite some time. The last time she had been there, her father had been with her. But it was the fenceline between the Mitchell and the Allen estate; the meadow carrying down and far, the woodland arched around in something of a 'C' shape. The Allen's certainly had more than they did. And the creek passed directly through the meadow.

She and Chloe sat there for some time, listening to the sounds of nature. Beca was grateful they couldn't hear gunfire any longer, as she had been able to the first few weeks after the war had started. In fact, they were about to get up and make their way back through the forest when a great yowling startled them into staying. It was hounds, no creature of the woods, Beca knew; but it was startling nonetheless. And then, on the far side of woodland on the Allen's estate adjacent to them, the hounds broke through the treeline, streaking across the meadow after the darting, tiny figure of a hare.

"They're hunting." Chloe murmurs to herself. Beca had never seen a hunt before. But within seconds of saying it, Bumper and Charlie broke after the hounds on their horses, riding hard, and fast. The hare could not cross the creek and it twisted sharply, the hounds on it's heels. It shot straightaway, in it's panic, or confusion, directly towards the horses before veering again. Charlie pulled hard on his horse's reins and Beca could hear the chestnut horse whinny angrily, throwing it's head back. The hare raced for the creek once again, with the hounds after it still, and Beca must say it all happened so fast. Bumper followed, but it began to gain distance on them, and with a sharp whip to his horse's rump; Charlie's mount reared up against him and Charlie was thrown into the creek. The horse's footing slipped out under the mud of the bank and down it went as well; it was not a deep creek, so Beca was not particularly worried. A few moments later, the hounds were set to the hare and Bumper rode to an easy halt; oblivious to his brother's fall. With haste, he approached the dogs and sent them away.

Charlie's horse grunted and whinnied in pain, half in the creek. Charlie had drug himself to the side of the creek and lay there; Bumper lifted the bleeding red rabbit proudly; his face falling when he turned to find that there was no one there.

"Do you think he's been injured?" Chloe asks, setting her hands against the wood of the fence and hoisting herself up slightly for a better look.

Beca knows. "Yes."

And the horse, making all kinds of dreadful noises slumped against the edge of the bank a few feet from it's rider.

They run back towards the manor, knowing that Bumper would have been riding back towards his own. They would find out sometime later that Charlie had broken his pelvis, and shatter his knee. The horse broke it's leg; leaving it for dead. Charlie did recover, but he would always have a strange gait whenever he walked, from now on. Beca didn't understand sport hunting. But 'twas all for one little hare.

* * *

There were many peculiarities of the manor, more and more which Beca had been noticing. Things that she was certain she'd set down somewhere would disappear or turn up in areas that they had no business being. Like her hairbrush that had appeared in the dining room, or Mrs. Abernathy's ball of yarn that had turned up in the water closet. She'd been quite furious on the account that she believed that one of the children had hidden it, or simply touched something of hers without express permission to do so. Both Beca and Chloe insisted it wasn't them. But when Mrs. Abernathy got on her for believing she'd moved her Bible down to the music room and off of her nightstand, Beca had fervently shaken her head.

"It wasn't I."

"No? Then it was Chloe?"

"It wasn't Chloe, either."

Mrs. Abernathy throws her hands up helplessly, vexed with the illusions of children. "Well, if it wasn't me, and it wasn't you nor Chloe, then who was it?"

The answer, one in which Beca had been mulling for sometime now, seemed clear to her. "My mother." She'd felt the presence occasionally, as well. Hiding just around every corner, just out of sight. It wasn't as terrifying as it had once been. She believes firmly now that it had been her mother whom wanted Beca to find her diary.

Mrs. Abernathy's face tightens, before it falls. Something sympathetic flashes behind her eyes as she lets out a long breath through her nose. Beca doesn't understand the look, not yet. "Your mother?" She queries softly.

"Yes."

Mrs. Abernathy looks around her, seemingly at a loss, as she had been when Chloe had stumbled upon Beca in the garden. "Why would your mother be moving my Bible?"

That's something she's less certain of. "I don't know."

Mrs. Abernathy drops the subject then; relieving Beca from her punishments. Beca had tromped down the steps until she found Chloe in the music room; curled up with her sheet music in her lap, facing the window. She'd looked up when Beca entered. "You're certain that it's your mother moving things about the house?" Chloe questions intimately, keeping her voice low so that no one may overhear.

Beca hadn't yet admitted it to Chloe, but she supposes she and Mrs. Abernathy had been louder than she thought. It was the only reasonable explanation she could come up with. "Quite." Crossing the threshold of the music room, Beca lifts her stockings so that she can sit next to the girl, smoothing and re-adjusting the fabric once she's settled. "If it's not you, and it's not me- or Mrs. Abernathy, except for that one time- then it must be."

"You must be careful what you speak of." Chloe advises hesitantly, fingers toying with the corners of the sheet music. Beca notices immediately, and reaches out to stop her- Mrs. Abernathy would be in a fret if it had gotten too mussed. Chloe stills, sending her an apologetic look before continuing. "I believe you, but people may think you've gone 'round the bend."

Defensive, Beca sits back with her arms over her chest. "How do you mean?"

Chloe raises her eyebrows. The sun peeks out from behind it's cover of cloud, finally, and it shines straight through the window, setting her hair ablaze. "Insane."

"I know what 'round the bend' means," She retorts. "I just don't know what you meant by it."

Chloe sighs. "Nothing. I meant no offense."

"I don't think Mrs. Abernathy would ever say anything at all."

"No," Chloe blinks the sunlight out of her eyes, dropping her gaze back down to the music. Long lashes catch bits of it, making them look dewy in the early morning light. "I think not, either."

* * *

Though they hadn't marked the calendar on the day Chloe had arrived, Beca and Mrs. Abernathy decided to make their best estimate at that fateful day in the garden. They'd decided on June eighth, because it was still early on in the month, and that's about all they knew. And because Chloe hadn't- or could not truly remember- articulated her birthday, it was decided that that day, June eighth, would be it.

On the day, she was all bashful grins and modesty. She wished not that they make a fuss, and that they simply resumed with everyday life. Mrs. Abernathy humored her; though they'd made a batch of blackberry jam in celebration and the spirits were good all around.

Even better because Beca had received her next letter from her father since Christmas only few days before. It was good to know that he was still out there somewhere. Though safety was in fact a wave; always moving, always unpredictable. For Beca knew well that he could easily have perished at the hands of some Yank between the time he penned the words, and it was delivered here, to the estate. Or maybe he was still alive, but he could just as simply die tomorrow- as they all could. Albeit, some were more likely than others.

On the evening of Chloe's birthday; after bedtime tea, whilst Beca had been curled up in her nightgown half-asleep, said fire-haired girl had suddenly shifted Beca's bed. She'd woken with a jolt, the shock making her instantly lucid. Chloe's face had a small grin to it. "My apologies, I didn't wish to startle you. I just felt entirely impulsive, I had to come."

"What on earth is it?" Grimacing, Beca sat up; childishly using the back of her hand to wipe at the drying drool that had accumulated on her chin.

"I had to say thank you."

Beca wasn't following. "For what?"

White-teeth illuminate in the darkness. "For opening your doors to me."

Something in her chest warms pleasantly; it creeps up her body and into her ears. "You really ought to be thanking Mrs. Abernathy. You know she has all the say around here."

Chloe lilts her head on her shoulder, smiling still, and bouncing a bit on spot. "Well, yes and no. It was you."

Beca was less sure of that, but her father had always taught her to try to take compliments in good graces; and she supposed that this was a compliment.

* * *

And so the year went on it's same queer way; the war was making it a bit difficult to get ahold of necessities when they went to town, things continued to appear and disappear in the manor, Chloe hadn't quite yet conquered her fear of the woods, Beca was beginning to master the piano- although arithmetic still gave her more trouble- and Mrs. Abernathy had begun embroidery lessons. Beca receives two more letters by the time the year is up.

As their second Christmas with Chloe comes to be, they spend it very similar as they had to the first. Though the feast wasn't quite so great this time now that Charlie Allen was mostly off of his feet. He'd still not made quite a full recovery from his fall in the summer. That year, however, they do not visit Mrs. Abernathy's mother; opting instead for a quiet morning, in which they took turns reading aloud from the Bible. Mrs. Abernathy says a bizarre- and horrifyingly suggestive- thing about Bumper being a nice boy, and how she ' _wonders if he and Beca would get along well_ '. And Beca can't be particularly rude, so she deflects as subtly as she knows how. "Shall I make tea?"

So she'd sat uncomfortably in her frock at the table, worried she was now under some kind of pressure from Mrs. Abernathy's terrible delusion about the possibilities of the two of them. Mrs. Abernathy seemed to have been that way ever since Beca had complained about her breasts feeling tender; which was difficult enough for her to bring up, she felt shy, but she'd been worried so she had to swallow her pride. Mrs. Abernathy had laughed and assured that she was perfectly fine, _'just growing into a woman's body_ '- and ever since, she'd been mortified. Especially when Mrs. Abernathy spoke about boys with that little, playful glint in her eye.

By the time the winter was coming to a close, Beca had noticeable lumps beginning on her breasts, and Chloe was blissfully unencumbered by change. She'd even, on a day she felt particularly sore, caved and asked Chloe if her body had been suffering the same way- which it had not. Beca could choke on the bitter taste of envy as it boiled on her tongue, a sudden yearning to not have to deal with change, of something so permanent. Chloe could remain blissfully ignorant to change for a while longer, and anything felt like a lifetime.

The Allen's had brought their hounds on Christmas; there was a pregnant bitch and Mrs. Allen was worried that she would give birth while they were out of the house. Mrs. Abernathy had been hesitant, to say the least, but she was a compliant woman and the dogs were kept in the music room while they ate around the table. Beca and Chloe shared an excited glance across the table; knowing that they already had a secret plan to sneak away and spend time with the animals. Not long ago, they'd lamented about their lack in pets at the estate; and they'd tried their best at convincing Mrs. Abernathy to get a pup, even if it was from the Allen's. She had _not_ complied to that.

"I'm nearly seventeen," Charlie had announced, after the conversation had shifted his way. "When I am, I'm going to see if the army will have me. The Confederacy needs all of the soldiers it could get." There were polite hums from around the table. But Beca knew the others were thinking the same thing she was, though she too had mumbled her approvals; the Confederacy likely had no use for cripples. And even if they had; he would not make it long.

As the wine was being served after dinner, Beca makes eye contact with Chloe from across the table, and gives her a slow, emphatic nod and knowing smile. A look that is shared; that comes to life and curls itself over her features. As covertly as possible, Beca braces her hands against the wood of her seat and lifts herself off. Mrs. Abernathy is so absorbed in her conversation that she doesn't spare a look Beca's way, and she slips around the archway and into the kitchen; lifting the lantern from the wall and skulking towards the music room. She slips inside with ease, and the few hounds milling about on the other side look up at her when the enters. A few lazily wag their tails, the dozing pregnant bitch doesn't stir, and a couple don't even bother casting a second look.

Tentatively, Beca approaches the nearest hound and extends her hand. He sniffs it before placing his wet nose in Beca's palm, and she grins at her newfound permission to pet the animal. Scratching him behind the ears and petting his smooth head. He lolls his tongue out happily. A second approaches, considering Beca patting the other for a long moment; as he shuffles a few steps closer, Beca is about to reach out for him; when he growls, snapping his incisors towards the dog she had been petting. It whines and rushes away, and Beca holds her hand to her chest; reconsidering.

"Aren't you a nasty brute?" She scolds, a deep frown pulling her lips downwards. But the dog lilts his head to the side, sniffing in Beca's general direction, but remaining rooted about a foot away. He doesn't appear particularly aggressive, perhaps just short, or jealous of treatment he wasn't receiving. Beca weighs her pros and cons, before extending her hand out as slowly as she could. He eyes it, teeth baring momentarily as she comes too near to his face, and she halts, with her hand hovering. But he stretches his neck out and sniffs as his brother had done, and when Beca moves to pet him on his floppy ears, he remains unmoved. "See, not so bad,"

The latch to the music rooms clicks, and the hounds prick their ears in it's direction. Beca pulls her hand back to the body, a tension taut in her chest. As Chloe's body slips into the room, as she'd expected it to, she feels her relief. Turning back to the dog, she finds it disappeared among the others. A few pace with the excitement of visitors.

Chloe sets her lantern atop of the desk near the door, approaching the nearest hound. "They're friendly?"

"Mostly so," Beca had never actually been acquainted with the dogs before now, but they seemed well enough. "I was just petting a cross one, however. He didn't snap at me, but he nipped another dog."

Chloe tuts, reaching her hand out in the same way Beca had. Although, she crouches down as she does it. The hound eyes her warily, big, sad eyes flickering from Beca and back to Chloe. Hesitantly, he submits his nose forward to give an equally reluctant sniff, before he jerks away from Chloe and slips to some corner of the room. Twisting her lips, Chloe pouts. "I suppose he's shy." Rising to her feet, Chloe watches as Beca shrugs, moving towards another hound.

"Maybe he didn't like how you crouched down like that. I didn't do that, and both allowed me to pet them." A hound returns to give Beca an uninterested sniff, she thinks it may be the one that had been a little bit rowdy, but he was as calm as could be now. She scratches him behind his ears, and his tail thumps dully against some piece of furniture. Chloe nears another pacing hound, and he scurries from her before she even has a chance of acquainting herself. Restless creatures. "Here, come pat this one." Beca offers. "He's willing."

Her light little feet hardly make a sound as she pads over, placing one gentle hand against Beca's shoulder, leering over. The hound's tail ceases curiously, and he bares his teeth in the same way he had towards her. "Willing?" Chloe echoes. "He's snarling at me."

Beca clicks her tongue at the dramatics. "He isn't _snarling_. It's fine, he did the same to me at first. If you aren't comfortable, however, you can go ahead and try to coax another one to you."

Chloe's indecision lingers around Beca, and she can feel it; practically hear the thoughts churning inside her skull. "I suppose..." Chloe murmurs, stepping next to Beca, and extending her hand towards the hound. He silently bares his teeth again, and Beca touches Chloe's elbow faintly to stop her. The hound remains rooted, lowering his lip. Chloe inches forward, and the hound lets out a low growl. She pauses again, until the dog's trust is regained, nose in the air, beady eye unwavering as she continues moving, hand gently coming to rest against its ear, the same way Beca's had been.

She can sense the other hounds pacing still, anxiously back in forth in the shadows behind her back. She knows it. It's beginning to set her teeth on edge, suddenly realizing they're helplessly outnumbered. "Chloe-"

The hound snarls then, throwing it's thick head at Chloe's wrist. He latches on with a growl, and Beca shrieks. Wide-eyed, Chloe watches as the animal dips it's teeth into her flesh, instinctively shaking it's head the way Beca had watched them shake the hare. The blood rushes into her ears and without thinking, she brings her leg back and smacks her full momentum into the creature's ribcage. A surprised yelp escapes from it's throat, and the music room door is being thrown open with a clatter.

That's when the noise explodes in on Beca again; her heart thumping angrily in her chest, and the howl of the hounds. Mrs. Abernathy's face is contorted somewhere between anger and horror; a burning lantern in hand, held out in front of her.

"What on God's earth is happening in here?" She storms towards the two girls, eyebrows knitted together.

"We wanted to pet the dogs." Beca's voice quavers in a way she hadn't anticipated, but as she looks at Chloe- still slack-jawed and cradling her wounded hand to her chest- she is hit with the sudden worry that Chloe could be a cripple like Charlie for the rest of her life, somehow. And it would be all Beca's fault.

Mrs. Abernathy seems to connect dots rather quickly, as her eyes dart past Beca and to the injured Chloe. They take her to the kitchen, where their guests had been instructed not to worry and to continue sitting, but when Mrs. Allen understood what had happened, she was beside herself with apologies.

"It's not _your_ fault," Mrs. Abernathy chides, sending a stern look over Mrs. Allen's shoulder and towards Beca, before returning to Chloe's wrist; which was currently being dabbed with what was left of her father's brandy. Chloe had been passive, at best. Sitting still and eerily calm throughout the whole process. Not a tear had streaked her face, when even Beca had swiped angrily at a few that had strayed; borne from embarrassment and concern. "They shouldn't have been sneaking around, they ought to know better."

Mrs. Allen clucks her tongue, stooping forwards to get a clean look at Chloe's mangled wrist. Which had, surprisingly, been not very mangled at all, despite the circumstances. "Are you alright, dear?" She addresses Chloe then, pursing her lips. Wordlessly, Chloe nods, eyes not breaking from the older woman. The air is open for her response, but there is none. In fact, Mrs. Allen shifts stiffly afterwards, pressing an amused sort of smile on her face that did not stick long. "The still waters run deep in this one."

Mrs. Abernathy presses her lips together in a thin line, shifting her gaze towards Chloe. Beca wanted to talk to her- to apologize. But she could admit that she too was unsettled by Chloe's reaction, or _lack_ thereof. Perhaps it had been the shock, but there was something in the way she hadn't even flinched during or after, that sat in acidity in the pit of her stomach. So for once, round blues that had never once seemed cold to Beca had sent frost chilling down her spine.

"Shall we send for a doctor?" Bumper queries, bordering on sounding bored in a way that makes Beca bristle. Mrs. Abernathy sighs.

"No. We will keep our eye on it and tend to it here. Besides," She frowns again. "it's Christmas day. We'd be in terrible luck to find a doctor willing to ride anywhere, and at this time of the evening. I'm sorry about your hound, Mary." As an afterthought, Mrs. Abernathy turns to Mrs. Allen then, before beginning to unwrap the dressing of bandage they'd scrambled to locate in the water closet. "Beca gave it quite a kick in her fear." She can feel her face burn hot at being outed like that, but the plump woman does not even spare her a glance.

"It's no worry. He's not a prize." Chloe blinks once when Mrs. Abernathy begins to wind the bandage around her wrist, eyes moving coolly from person to person. When they land on Mary again she titters, almost sounding nervous. "You sure are a quiet thing. You're certain you're alright?"

 _How could she not be_ , Beca thinks _. She's as calm as a mirror of water._ "Yes, thank you ma'am." Chloe answers then, a closed-mouth smile awkwardly forming on her face.

* * *

The Allen's leave shortly thereafter, and Chloe is sent to her bedroom with a cup of tea and a stern, exhausted look from their housemate. She keeps Beca downstairs to berate her, and she gets a firm slap with the switch across her wrist for her insolence. " _Sneaking around_ ," Mrs. Abernathy had hissed, mere inches from her face. "Playing with things that aren't yours, making a _fool_ of yourself! You ought to know better."

"I'm sorry." It had turned into a long evening, and Beca's mind had felt frayed and vexed, and there was a quiver in her voice that she despised. Sorry had not been enough to save her skin, however. And after it was done, her abused flesh angry and red, the tears had fallen freely from her eyes and she couldn't stop them. She could see the regretful look immediately on Mrs. Abernathy's face. But the hardness of it was still there, the necessity to remind Beca of her place. She'd clucked her tongue, taking a heavy seat into her father's plush chair of the living room.

"Come here, girl." The demand was gone from her voice. Only the exhaustion remained, stripped, washed away, and bare. But Beca hadn't trusted her- this wasn't her first switching, but it had been a long time- so instead she'd simply glared at the woman from under wet lashes, beginning to swipe away the tears as they fell.

"No, _thank_ _you_." She'd spat. "I'd like to go to bed."

Mrs. Abernathy raises a few long fingers to her temple, and applies pressure to what must have been a headache building to a crescendo. And she stares a little bit longer at the defiant young girl across from her. "Alright." After a thoughtful moment. "Don't forget to say your prayers. I won't see you to it."

Beca had stomped up the staircase with a flair of dramatics; when she reached the top of the landing, she'd hesitated. Chloe's bedroom was in the opposite direction of hers, and as she would like to go in for a quick visit, she knew Mrs. Abernathy would hear the floorboards creak in the wrong direction. And though Beca could tell the woman was remorseful in her actions, she didn't want to risk anymore disobedience. So she continues on her way; the way she is supposed to.

* * *

"It doesn't hurt so bad," Chloe stares at her bandaged wrist intently, twisting it this way and that, testing its capabilities. Mrs. Abernathy had them scrubbing the kitchen. Sitting back on her haunches, Beca lets out a long puff of air from her chest. Frowning, she glances down at her own wrist; bruised and sore.

"You're lucky." She murmurs, picking up where she left off in front of the gaping oven door, dropping her rag into the bucket of sudsy water next to her. She'd been thinking about it all evening, until she'd tired herself into sleep. Chloe's shocked, apathetic face burned into her mind when she closed her eyes. The dog's jaws around her lithe wrist, and Chloe simply staring- _watching_ \- detached. Like she was gazing through a looking glass. _Hypnotized_ by it. Beca had considered that perhaps simply, she didn't react more because she just wasn't that hurt. But Beca had seen the way the animal had swung it's big head, instinct having it try to tear flesh from bone. And yet... she was relatively unscathed, and even less shaken. It made no sense, until it did.

Until the moment Beca was sitting, brow-furrowed at the foot of her bed; praying that the war should end soon and her father would return unharmed, and that Chloe may recover without any delay or complications. And then there was a moment in which her bedroom door inched open. Heart tripping over itself in her chest, she'd gasped a lungful of cold air, ' _Amen_ ' caught somewhere in the back of her throat. But the silence swelled like an apex of her own realization; that she was not alone, and that she had no reason to be afraid at all.

"If I say something," She breaches reluctantly, wringing the rag out over the bucket. "Will you believe me? Or will you think ill of me?"

Chloe blinks at her, just once, before she slowly sets aside the broom she held, leaning it against the cabinets. "Of course I'll believe you."

While she's not doubtful of that, Beca still holds her tongue for moments still. She was nervous about hearing how it would sound aloud, coming from her own lips. She didn't want to come across insane, or dumbly gullible. But through the weak sunlight streaming into the kitchen; lighting the dust in the air, and Chloe's hair shone like fire, her eyes even moreso. It was a startling dash of color against such a grey backdrop, and it makes Beca's heart race, for some reason. "I think my mother may have saved you."

Her eyes blink a few more times, flitting down to her wrist and back up at Beca, a spark more thoughtful than they had been moments ago. "You still feel her here?"

Chloe has this penchant to lower her voice secretly whenever they spoke of something intimate. Beca can't help but mimic it. "Sometimes."

"And you believe she saved me?" Chloe's lips twitch into a coy kind of smile, like she was flattered to be given such an honor. Beca shrugs.

"I don't know. Maybe she protected you, somehow. So it wouldn't be so bad."

A pink tongue darts out between Chloe's teeth, running along her bottom lip. "Has she always been here? Your mother?"

And to be truthful, she hadn't. Not until that day in limbo, where she'd found her mother's diary. That's when things began to happen. She shakes her head slowly, lowering her eyes away from Chloe and back towards the rag in her hand. But she knows how that would sound, on top of all other things. So she leaves it at just a dissenting movement of her head.


	3. 1863- SpringSummer

Spring began to warm the earth again, and as the new year started, Beca fell into her wordless communication with Chloe moreso than ever. She spoke with Mrs. Abernathy less, quietly tending to her chores and classes, consciously trying to make less of a fuss. Though there were times when the woman's back was turned that she'd stick her tongue out at her, or roll her eyes when she disagreed to a task. But Chloe seemed to understand. They would meet eyes and Beca would know exactly what she was thinking; with a quirk of her brow or shift of her lips, and it was often aligned with Beca's own thoughts. 

It felt so very strange to be understood in such a way. The kind of strange that had her stomach crawling like she'd swallowed an entire anthill, but not in a particularly bad way. It gave her jitters, sent her skin alive and tingling.

* * *

Sitting in the music room, Chloe was beginning to fully grasp the piano. Beca would purposefully approach the bench and begin pressing keys when Mrs. Abernathy wasn't around; giggling when Chloe would get annoyed and swat her hands away from the ivory keys. Other times, Beca would sidle onto the bench next to her, and find a way to sneak into Chloe's harmony, and together they would perform a game of cat and mouse over the chords. 

"It sounds lovely, girls." Mrs. Abernathy opens the door to the music room with one hand, the other holding a tray of carrots she'd prepped as a lunchtime snack. "Beca, you prove quite talented with music. I always knew you had it in you." She smiles sweetly, setting the tray down against the table, and stooping down onto the loveseat. 

She'd noticed that Beca was withdrawing. Beca could tell that she knew; she had attempted to apologize, rectify her actions a few times when they were alone. But her stubborn pride kept herself from fully moving past that grudge, and so she nursed it carefully instead.

"Thank you," She mumbles, in her polite yet insincere way. She wasn't sure what to do with compliments. Wasn't sure where to put them in her brain, so she stores them, somewhere inactive and uncertain.

"Chloe," Mrs. Abernathy turns to the other girl then; whom had remained hovering in a somewhat distant corner of her periphery. Chloe raises her eyebrows with surprised compliance. The older woman smiles reassuringly at her, offering up the tray. "Here, take some, dear. I need to speak with Beca privately for a moment."

Beca's stomach swoops down then, and she swallows back her sudden wave of agitation. She meets Chloe's eyes from over Mrs. Abernathy's shoulder- and sees the confusion reflected there- before Chloe obeys and grabs herself several carrot slices and celery bundles. Chloe crunches down on an orange stick, her rigid shoulders betraying her struggle against her impulse to stare as she exits the room, and Beca watches as she slips out of the door, without looking back once.

Mrs. Abernathy had since never asked Chloe to leave the room for a discussion; unless it was a scolding. And even then- she had never sent her away. She would usually wait for Chloe to either get the hint, or simply whisk away on her own.

Mrs. Abernathy takes a stiff seat on the edge of the loveseat, stretching her arm out to extend the tray towards Beca. But suddenly, she's not hungry. Supposedly, after several long seconds of her arm extended in the air, Mrs. Abernathy understands and sets it down on the table between them. Her mouth is a thin line. Beca can tell she's looking for a way to begin.

"Is it my father?" Beca asks, breaking the silence.

The older woman meets Beca's eyes again at that, and they crinkle the slightest bit at the corners. "No, nothing to fear- don't fret." At the assurance, she feels some sense of anxiety pull from her chest like an unwinding ball of yarn. But note all of it. "Though, it does involve him."

"But he's alright?"

Mrs. Abernathy nods once; firm and final. "Absolutely unharmed, last I've heard of him." A breath whistles carefully out of Beca's mouth, and she mimics the other woman's nod. Mrs. Abernathy then dips her hands carefully into the pocket of her apron, and withdraws two envelopes with far more care than necessary. Beca watches as she differentiates between the two of them; unfolding them and peeking at their contents, before she hesitantly extends her left hand in Beca's direction again. "I suppose this will just be easier if you read this."

Furrowing her brow, Beca observes the hand being offered her way for a moment, before reluctantly grabbing the soft paper within her own. Because she's not so sure just how important it is, she unfolds it with just as much caution as she'd watched Mrs. Abernathy do it.

She recognizes the handwriting immediately. Her father. He loops his 'f's the same way Beca does, and his 't's are have the same long tail, and the little curve of his 'e's are all the same. It was his without a doubt. So when she reads it- top to bottom- not once but twice, she's not sure why something within her psyche is trying to convince her otherwise.

"I don't…" She begins, shaking her head at the paper, refusing to look up. " _Understand_."

Awkwardly, Mrs. Abernathy twiddles her fingers together. "It's safer this way."

A twang strikes inside of her chest then; like a pendulum, beating her somewhere close to her heart, and swinging back. "You're going to marry my father?" She asks incredulously, shooting daggers at the other woman.

"Beca, if your father was to perish in the war- you would be too young to be considered fit to care for the estate."

"So _you_ want it-"

"I want what's best for you." The woman intervenes- the severity Beca had been expecting not quite present in her voice, instead there is a distant plea. "It is my job to _care_ for you, Beca- and I wouldn't want you being taken to an orphanage, or-"

The words, as soft as they may be, grate on Beca's ears. "Do you really expect me to call you mother?" A venom, dark and viscous, sits under her words and Beca tries to blink away the heat she feels burning behind her eyes.

Mrs. Abernathy blinks quite a bit, too. Thrown. Her mouth drops open slightly, and she raises her hand to her chest. Perhaps hurt. Perhaps horrified. Beca has to look away- because something about her reaction feels sinful, and she knows it was wrong but she is far too upset to care. She stares back down at the letter in her hands. She could tear it up. But that wouldn't do any good. "No, of course not," She hears the woman say. "Nothing has to change at all. It's just in the eyes of the law- so that no one may think anything of it if- _pray he returns home_ \- anything was to happen to your father." Beca says nothing. She waits until she is certain that no tears will reveal her before she looks up again, over at the woman, who helplessly runs her tongue along her bottom lip.

Beca drops her gaze back to the paper, before stiffly thrusting her arm in Mrs. Abernathy's direction. "Here, take it."

The woman does so, after a moment's reluctance. And then they're in the silence.

Beca hates the idea. She hates that she wasn't consulted. She _hates_ that she's being treated like a child, and that they had no faith in her or her abilities. She may be small, but that certainly doesn't mean that she was stupid, or naive.

"Would you like to read the other?" Mrs. Abernathy offers weakly, as though she knows the answer. Which is no. A firm _no_. Beca can grasp the concept; the fake love letter, passionately declaring her father's love for Mrs. Abernathy; how he cannot _bear_ to stand another day without her as his wife, despite the war tearing them apart. She wouldn't like to read that- even if it is faux.

"No." The word, as strong as it is in Beca's mind, comes out less so. She feels like she's going to cry again- which would do nothing to help her image of composure. "Aren't you already married?." She pushes out, before any of that can happen.

Mrs. Abernathy lets out a long, heavy sigh. "My mother arranged a marriage for me, some years ago. He was a fine man, and all," She raises her hands with a small chuckle. "But he wasn't for me. Between us two," Conspicuously, she leans forward in her chair with a playful twinkle in her eye. "I think he preferred the company of men." Beca's mouth falls open, at a loss for a response. Mrs. Abernathy doesn't seem to need one, however; as that light drains out of her gaze and she averts her eyes momentarily, out the window. "He passed away the winter before I started working at your estate. Pneumonia, the doctor said."

And just as quickly, Beca feels stupid and petulant for even asking. She doesn't know what she's supposed to say about things like that. She's never had to think about what she _would_ say, if anyone had ever confided in her something of that stature. "I'm sorry." She whispers, and she's not sure about what. Her nose is stinging. "I'd like to be excused."

The woman looks sad- for reasons Beca does not care to decipher at the moment. But she grants the permission, and Beca is up from her seat and out of the music room in what she would like to believe is an impressive pace. She makes sure to shut the door gently behind her- but without haste, a level headedness that she hopes reflects back on Mrs. Abernathy. But as soon as it's shut, she's making quick work of letting her feet guide her.

Up the stairs, where she feels the fat tears finally slip free and burn trails of shame down her cheeks. She had worked hard on controlling herself and her emotions since the last time she had cried after her switching at Christmas. Angrily, she wipes away the few she can catch, reaching the top of the staircase in a flurry of motion, and turning before she can even think about it.

She does not go towards her own room. She halts in her tracks when she realizes this, sniffing hard. And looking up from her feet, she sees Chloe, simply standing in the middle of the hall, brows furrowed in her worry.

She's not sure how she knew Chloe would be here. Was not even aware that perhaps she was searching for her- or seeking her, but she feels it then. Swelling up inside of her chest, something ready to burst, and she thinks, in that moment, that maybe Chloe feels it too. That they are connected by heartstrings and Beca had just as easily been lead here, gravitated to this position, because said heartstrings desired it.

She rushes forwards then, enveloping Chloe into the tightest hug she believes she had ever given in her life; arms pressing Chloe against her. Face and sobs nuzzled into the crook of where her shoulder and neck meet, breathing her in.

But of course, Chloe is there, ready to catch her, and embracing her just as tightly as she needs.

"My father-"

"I know." The girl says gently, one hand coming up to cradle the back of Beca's head.

"He's going to marry-"

"I _know_." She repeats, firmer this time, but still soothing, still gentle. Like she _did_ know- fully, truly. She understood the pain Beca felt seizing her, and shared it, just as true.

So Beca only squeezes a little bit tighter, and lets her tears flow free. Melting into the sensation of Chloe's hands rhythmically running through the locks of her hair, until she doesn't feel anymore tears within her body.

* * *

When the day comes for Mrs. Abernathy to ride into town, fake letter tucked and folded neatly into the pocket of her dress, ready to convince the church and government of her love for Mr. Mitchell- she was a mess of frets.

"You remember what to do in the state of an emergency, hmm?" She asked, smoothing out the material on the front of Beca's dress, eyes darting up and down the younger girl. Beca had sighed, and recited the course of action for the fifth time that morning. "And, if any troops should come your way?" It was unlikely, but Beca had obediently repeated what she had been told, again. "Good girl." Mrs. Abernathy smiles, oddly watery, and pats Beca on the side of her cheek as she rises. "I shall try to return soon, girls."

In theory, the idea of being left alone in the manor was brimming with opportunities for unsupervised fun. But now that it was materializing into a reality, suddenly that positivity was dissipating from her, replaced with something far more threatening.

The halls seemed too quiet, the corners too dark, the woods too close. It created a kind of anxiety that Beca wasn't expecting, nor did she appreciate it very much. It kept her rooted to the front porch, staring at Mrs. Abernathy's vanishing figure as the carriage hobbled down the driveway, and until it was gone over the horizon. Only then, did Chloe turn to her; squinting against the early morning sun, smiling.

"What shall we do today?"

Beca peeks back at the house, feeling an unpleasant roiling in her stomach. There was no suggestion that sounded appealing to her anymore. "Our chores- we should do that. Otherwise Mrs. Abernathy may never leave us unattended again." She forces a smile, and an easy laughter, and Chloe doesn't seem to notice that it's not genuine. And she doesn't want to give Chloe a chance to answer, so she swallows her nerves, turns heel, and pulls open the front door.

She wants to keep herself busy. Moving. She wants not to think about the tall stature of the house, silent and empty as a mausoleum.

So they hum, and they dust, and some of her apprehension begins to fade away by the time they make themselves comfortable on the floor of the sitting room, music sheet in their laps.

In truth, she was still upset about the whole situation. She didn't agree with the marriage. She didn't like that her father had never mentioned it to her. Beca had even written him a strongly worded letter discussing _exactly_ how she felt about all of that- as an English man, she hopes she will impress him with her expansive vocabulary.

The only thing that cut her brooding short was the rumble within her stomach, casually reminding Beca that noon has now passed, and she hadn't eaten a speck. Glancing over at Chloe, who has stopped her humming, but is now reciting the notes on the page she had been analysing under her breath, Beca stands, and the girl's attention shifts.

"Would you like some bread and jam?" She offers, patting her stomach subconsciously. "I just realized we haven't eaten at all. Are you hungry?"

Chloe seems to carefully consider this; lilting her head to the side, causing wild red locks to tumble over her shoulder. Her mouth a thin line, before she shrugs. "Alright. Thank you."

Beca smiles her acknowledgement, darting her way towards the kitchen. The sun shone bright, a promising spring afternoon. Flower blooms were beginning to form in the garden, although the upkeep of the property had almost entirely lost to the wild, unorganized course of nature. They had slacked in the grooming last summer, which was to guarantee its state this coming year.

As long as there was fruit and vegetables in the garden, Mrs. Abernathy had said, they weren't going to worry about aesthetics.

Beca absorbs the silence for the moment, sighing. And then she resumes her journey towards the counter, where the loaf of bread Mrs. Abernathy had baked for them the evening before sat. She saws through it, a piece for both herself and Chloe, and then reaches for the can of jam nearby when she feels it.

She's hopeful that it's Chloe. But she knows it's not.

The sensation of eyes burrowing into the back of her neck, making the small hairs there erect in alarm. She inhales sharply through her nose. Something primal wants her to run.

She refuses.

It's only mother.

With a precise kind of slowness, straining to remain unruffled, Beca sets the knife down next to the bread and turns. "Chloe," She says, more out of the comfort of saying it rather than her true belief. "If that is you lurking behind corners, I'd appreciate it if you could stop. You _know_ my mother is a cause for supernatural concern, and you're making me jumpy."

But the kitchen is empty, devoid of anything other than the weak sun shining it's rays through the windows, lighting up the floor. Beca can never tell if seeing this nothingness makes her feel better, or worse. Anxiously, she taps her toes a moment, but when not a thing stirs, she puffs out all of the air in her lungs.

And then there's a crash.

Beca shrieks as she watches the broom closet snap open with such violence that she has half a mind to be surprised that it hadn't torn right from its hinges. The broom falls forward with a small clatter, but Beca's feet are already bolting her straight out of the kitchen, down to the hallway where she promptly shuts herself into the watercloset, bracing her arms against the door. She knows this would do nothing to stop a spirit, logically, but its just her first instinct. Her heart it hammering in her ears and she doesn't think about _logically_ , right now.

"Chloe?" She calls, hesitantly, and then waits. She prays for her heart to stop thumping so loud, because she doesn't think she would be able to hear an answer if there was one.

But there wasn't.

Which is around the same time Beca is struck with the idea that the spirit could have moved on; frightening Chloe in ways Beca isn't sure how to to imagine. She's simply left her alone.

Snagging her lip between her teeth, Beca pulls open the watercloset door and scans the hallways for anything askew. But there is nothing. So she runs back through the hallway, and the kitchen, past the open broom closet; small feet padding along the floor until she nearly skids into the sitting room. "Chloe?" The girl doesn't appear to notice her enter; she is simply curled up on the armchair, face buried in her knees, crying in sobs that shake her entire body. Beca darts forwards again, resting a gentle hand atop her shoulder, rousing her.

She doesn't know what she is going to hear. But the house feels like it's shrinking on Beca and she's lost in a sea of uncertainty. 

Chloe looks up at her, blinking fat tears from bloodshot blue. When she sees the silent question in the way Beca's eyes flick forwards and back, searching for some kind of answer but unable to form the questions, she shakes her head. "Why can't I remember anything?"

And it's not at all what Beca was expecting. She was more worried about a tale of a grisly apparition, or a menacing presence that Beca had experienced in the kitchen. But it was no such thing. It was a whole _other_ thing that Beca didn't have an answer to.

Running her tongue along her bottom lip, Beca straightens. "I have faith that you will remember in time." She's not sure how reassuring that sounds, because her voice is wavering slightly, and she is still itching to run. Hastily, she extends her hand in Chloe's direction, nearly smacking her with it. "Come. Let's take a walk in the garden and ease our minds. It's a lovely day."

She really needed the excuse to get out of the house, and the agitation it was oppressing onto her. But the fresh air did them well; they walked in silence; snacking on berries as they found them, taking long walks in the open fields; but not the woods, Beca did not feel keen on the woods today. She thought in silence. She wondered if her mother was upset with her about something; because for what other reason would she have to go around so angrily? Perhaps she didn't agree with her father's plan to marry Mrs. Abernathy. It was about the only reasoning Beca could come up with.

Chloe too, seemed to benefit from the fresh air. The tears slowed eventually, and her forlorn, streaked face melted away to some other kind of passive consideration. Beca wasn't sure how to comfort her, so she did not try. Though she wished she knew, or had a better idea.

So as the sun was beginning to sit low in the sky, Beca reached forwards, catching Chloe lightly by the sleeve of her dress; halting her. Chloe turns, a questioning raise to her brow, and Beca simply pulls her forwards into an embrace.

The quiet kind. The sorry kind. The hopeful kind.

She had still felt uncomfortable with the idea of returning into the manor, but she didn't wish to share the experience with Chloe just yet; not when there were clearly other things burdening her mind. But when Chloe suggested it was time to return, Beca swallowed her fear, and put on her best face. They ate the bread; which had started to turn crusty, but neither complained. And they retreated to Beca's room, reading from the Bible, as she knew they were meant to, and then they decided that together they would pray.

As Chloe got up to leave, Beca felt maggots churning in her stomach. "Wait."

"Yes?" Chloe stops by the door frame, turning around. "What's wrong?"

She's never had to ask this question before, and it's unexplainable to her now. It had seemed so much easier as a fleeting thought, though she struggles now to make use of her tongue, and her valued vocabulary knowledge. "Do you… Would you- do you think- can you sleep in here tonight? In my room?"

She watches, in the dim lamp light, as Chloe's face softens further. Her eyes, illuminated slightly orange from the fire, crinkle around the edges and her smile pulls at the corners of her mouth. Shyly, at first, but then as if she can't contain her excitement any longer, she chuckles. "Are you scared?"

It's silly. Ridiculous. "No."

Chloe drops her head to her chest, eyes glimmering. Beca swallows. The look of mirth made her feel a little bit like the mouse caught between the claws of the cat.

"Yes."

Chloe hums, rocking on the balls of her feet and wringing her hands together in front of her. "Well," The word draws out, dragging Chloe farther into the room with her. "I suppose, in that case," She drops down onto the end of Beca's bed. "I can stay."

Her breath is a tight knot in her chest, and for a moment Beca thinks it may suffocate her alive. "Thank you."

Chloe's teeth light up in the lowlight as she beams, crawling up the length of the bed and flipping the heavy duvets upwards, slipping bare feet underneath. "It's my pleasure." She wriggles around, rearranging a pillow beneath her skull and getting comfortable. "Your sheets are finer than mine." And then, with a wry wink, she turns her back to Beca.

Who waits a thoughtful moment, extinguishes the lantern, and then crawls in with her back facing Chloe as well. Staring at the door. Wondering her way to slumber if her mother was going to make another appearance, any sign.

* * *

"Don't chew your nails, Beca." Mrs. Abernathy scolds. "It's not ladylike."

Sighing, she drops her hands to her lap, where she immediately begins fidgeting with the loose thread on the bottom of her stockings.

Thus far, Mrs. Abernathy had kept her promise; things remained as they were before the government granted permission for the marriage. She and her father were to be officially wed at the altar the next time he returns home- either in passing, or when the war comes to a conclusion.

If he lived to see it, that is.

So as the spring begun to melt away to summer, Beca watched her mother's wedding ring glint in the warm afternoon rays, fastened around Mrs. Abernathy's third finger.

Mrs. Abernathy sat on the rocking chair of the back foyer, knitting away mindlessly, while Beca sat on the steps, poking at the fabric with increasingly aggravated variables. Or, at the moment, pretending to do just that, while getting berated about her bad habits. "Sorry."

Behind her, Mrs. Abernathy sets something down. Beca listens to the rhythmic creaking of the chair, until it comes to a stop. "Beca?" She asks, quite softly.

"Yes?"

"What news have you heard of the war?"

Beca wants to quip that she has not heard much news of the war, given the account that most of her father's letters were for Mrs. Abernathy these days, discussing what they must do to get away with their rouse. "Why?"

There's a heavy sigh, and only the does she crane her neck around to stare at the older woman, furrowing her brow questioningly. Mrs. Abernathy's mouth is pressed into a worried line. "I plan to go to town, soon."

"Why?" Beca repeats, not following.

"The troops are headed this way, Beca." Mrs. Abernathy shakes her head, blonde locks tumbling out of her disheveled bun atop her head. "That is how towns get destroyed, do you understand?"

Beca processes the words, but still doesn't fully grasp what it was the other woman was trying to insinuate. "You're worried? About us here?" Because if it was really cause for concern, Beca would like to know.

"I'd just like to gather all the supplies we possibly can. Prepare for the worst."

The back patio door creaks open, and Chloe shuffles her way outside, closing the door shut behind her. Big blues probe from one woman to the next, and Beca takes in Chloe's appearance.

She's carrying a doll. One of the ones Beca had sitting, for the most part unused, atop of her wardrobe. But it's only half hearted; carried the way a child would; by the hand, leaving it's limp cloth body dangling. Her hair is tucked back in braids behind her ears, the thin, baby blue dress kicking up in the slight breeze.

"Are we to come?" Chloe questions, absently twirling the doll.

Beca had begun to grow out of dolls. Chloe seemed to acquire a strange affiliation with them lately. Beca hadn't queried about it yet; she wasn't sure how to breach the topic. She assumed maybe it was comforting- maybe it reminded Chloe of her home, wherever, whatever that home had been so long ago.

Mrs. Abernathy blinks, eyes raking Chloe the same way Beca's had. She seems thrown by Chloe's unusual accessory, but skips over that, as well. "Well, yes. As a matter of fact, I would." She turns back to Beca, shrugging. "I would feel much more at ease in these times if we all traveled together."

"Soon, though?" There have been a few times, now, where Beca finds it difficult to not look at Chloe. There was something about her stature, her presence that was entirely demanding. The lost look on her face, the bright hair, and in Beca's growing curiosity; her body. Which was becoming waif-like. Beca didn't understand how _she_ was growing- turning into a woman, as Mrs. Abernathy would say- but Chloe still seemed small, although she grew taller. But her breasts were hardly there, and though her face was maturing, there was something sinking about her eyes, too sharp about her cheekbones; and there was something that resembled a perpetual, childlike innocence about her.

"Soon," Mrs. Abernathy agrees. "Yes. Tomorrow, or the day after."

Chloe wanders her way over, taking a seat next to Beca, and setting the doll down on the opposite side of her. "Pray this isn't the last time."


End file.
